248 "I'm sure you must be weary, dear Will you rest upon my little bed ?" "There are pretty curtains drawn around, The sheets are fine and thin; I'll snugly tuck you in." "Oh no, no!" said the little fly, "For I've often heard it said, They never, never wake again, Who sleep upon your bed." Said the cunning spider to the fly, Will you please to take a slice?" "Sweet creature," said the spider, If you'll step in one moment, dear, You shall behold yourself." "I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "For what you're pleased to say, And bidding you good-morning, now, I'll call another day." The spider turned him round about, Would soon be back again; So he wove a subtle web Then he came out to his door again, "Come hither, hither, pretty fly, With the pearl and silver wing; Your robes are green and purple, Your eyes are like the diamond bright, But mine are dull as lead." Alas, alas! how very soon This silly little fly, Hearing his wily, flattering words, With buzzing wings she hung aloft, He dragged her up his winding stair, Into his dismal den Within his little parlour - but And the former called the latter "Little prig ;" "You are doubtless very big, But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together To make up a year, And a sphere: And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place. If I'm not so large as you, And not half so spry; A very pretty squirrel track. Talents differ; all is well and wisely put ; Neither can you crack a nut." - R. W. Emerson. LITTLE BROWN HANDS. THEY drive home the cows from the pasture, Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat-fields, They find, in the thick waving grasses, Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows. They gather the earliest snowdrops, And the first crimson buds of the rose. They toss the new hay in the meadow ; They gather the delicate sea-weeds, And at night-time are folded in slumber |